Dirty White

by Brian Freemantle

  Discerning, from the respect that the others showed to him, that Ramos was the leader, Harriet turned to him, attempting to prevent any nervousness showing and said, “So, OK. What do you want?”

  “Cooperation,” said Ramos simply. “If there’s cooperation, then everything is going to be all right.” He indicated the furthest office, where there were no side windows through which she might have attempted an escape, the only exit being through the outer rooms they were to occupy. “You’re there,” he said. “Get in.”

  The Colombian who had sat on the other side watched her enter the secure room and said, “I want her. I know she wants it, too. Liked it, in the car.”

  “Not yet,” said Ramos. “Later.”

  Howard’s prison was near the water, too, but much smaller than Harriet’s, a hurriedly discovered and entered disused boathouse on the Charles River, close to the Longfellow Bridge. There was no division of rooms and the only bedding was some wet, rotting canvas of long-ago sails and some survival jackets from which the padding had leaked.

  They thrust him with intentional roughness ahead of them into the place, knowing how insecure it was and wanting to frighten him into immediate acceptance of his captivity.

  “It’s my father, isn’t it?” said the boy defiantly.

  “Motherfucker,” said one of the Colombians.

  “A brave guy who fucked you!” said Howard, stupidly forcing the defiance.

  The Colombian who’d spoken hit out suddenly, pistol-whipping the boy across the face, splintering his nose and sending him screaming back onto the canvas. The concern of the men was at the noise rather than the injury, and a second man said, “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  The spokesman said dismissively, “He had to be frightened. So now he’s frightened …” He stared around the stinking hut. “Hope we don’t have to stay around here too long.”

  27

  The gangland slaying of Norman Lang made feverish the already intensive publicity on the eve of the court hearing, so that it dominated every newspaper and occupied every television newscast. By the second day the Bureau acknowledged the kidnap, but managed to suppress publicity. With Harriet—one of their own officers—it was easy. In Boston it was explained that Howard had made an abrupt disappearance before, when he went into the Eastham clinic—although Farr insisted that the FBI tell the truth to Jennings, up in Boston. Farr’s house became a fortress, a crowded place of openly armed men shielding him completely, taking every telephone call and opening every piece of mail, angrily impatient for the kidnap demand that only Farr knew would never come. It had been more impulsive than instinctive to withhold it from Brennan, but having done so Farr realized that he couldn’t produce it now because his earlier failure proved his willingness to cooperate. And it was right that he should cooperate. Too many of Brennan’s assurances hadn’t been fulfilled and with two people—the only people—in the world whom he loved, Farr decided that he could not take the slightest risk.

  The day before Farr was scheduled to testify to the preliminary hearing, he was smuggled in under armed escort for the last conference with the district attorney, Brennan and Seymour. They met, as before, in the Justice building and as soon as Farr sat down Harrop said, “I know how it is for you; how it goes beyond Howard. I’m very sorry.”

  “Thank you,” said Farr.

  “The lack of contact doesn’t make sense,” protested Seymour. “There should have been something.”

  “They obviously feel it isn’t necessary,” said Harrop. “That the killing of Lang was the message.”

  “How does it leave us?” demanded the determined Brennan.

  “Weak,” said Harrop, at once. “We had the best case of all against Lang, and I’d already been getting signs from his counsel that he was prepared to plea bargain and turn states’ evidence—which would have guaranteed everything …” The lawyer hesitated, looking sympathetically at Farr again. “And, although Miss Becker’s evidence wasn’t vital, it was corroborative of some of the transactions between the Caymans and New York, and now I don’t think we’re going to have that …” The man made another pause, still looking at Farr. “So,” he said, “everything devolves now almost entirely upon you. Certainly—I would say—in the case of Gomez.”

  “Scarletti?” queried Brennan anxiously.

  “Mr. Farr’s already positively identified Scarletti in a deposition,” the district attorney reminded him. “With Scarletti we’re in better shape; I’d have liked it to be stronger, but I think there’s enough. Just.”

  “We should have been more careful,” said Brennan in bitter recrimination. “We knew what sort of bastards we were dealing with. We should have anticipated it and mounted some sort of protection.”

  “There was nothing we could have done about Lang,” pointed out the other FBI man. “He hadn’t actually turned states’ evidence. He was still a charged defendant; his counsel wouldn’t have let us within a million miles of him.”

  “What about Harriet?” demanded Farr, with a bitterness different from Brennan’s.

  “We’ve had witnesses interfered with before,” said Seymour. “Members of the public. Never one of our own people. No one’s ever risked moving against a member of the Bureau like this. And I can’t understand why they’ve moved against your son, instead of you. So much of this doesn’t make sense.”

  Could they have done something if he’d given them the letter: traced somebody through fingerprints that might have been on it, for instance? A possibility, Farr supposed. But only a possibility. Still, it was something he couldn’t have risked putting to the test. He said, “How long will I be on the stand?”

  “All day,” said Harrop. “Not longer, I wouldn’t have thought. They’re taking a chance, making a grand jury appearance; normally their attorneys advise against it, until the full hearing. Indicates they’re going for a nonreturn of an indictment.”

  What would happen if a formal charge were returned against Gomez anyway? wondered Farr, in a sudden surge of despair. He said, “They’ve been kidnapped, right? I know you’ve said you’ll get them back but what are the odds? No bullshit.”

  The other three men looked awkwardly from one to the other, each unwilling to be the person to reply. It was Brennan who finally responded. He said, “There’s no average, no way of knowing, in a case like this. If we get a break, establish contact, we’ve got a chance. Hint a deal, talk about the penalties—which can frighten the shit out of them, despite their probably being professional criminals.”

  “That’s pretty fair summation,” endorsed Harrop. “We’ll keep a public lid on the kidnapping—say nothing at the trial—until there’s contact.”

  Farr was glad he had repeated the question. It was the sort of reply that Brennan had given before, the night of the Boston return, but now he had the district attorney’s confirmation: officially there wasn’t a chance in hell of getting them back. It was confirmation, too, that what he’d done—and intended to do—was right.

  Seymour said, “Forgive me if, by being frank, I’ll be brutal?”

  Farr swallowed, looking at the second FBI man. “Yes,” he said.

  “Like Peter said earlier, no one’s ever risked moving against the Bureau like this because they know damned well that it becomes a personal thing, for every one of us,” said Seymour. “They know we’ll go on, for as long as it takes, to get whoever it is back. And they know best of all that, if they cause that person any harm, we’ll tear the bricks out of the houses to get at them.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “That we’ve got to accept that Scarletti’s or Gomez’s people—or both—have got Harriet. And Howard. To pressure you. OK, so they’ll risk the pressure but there’s no way they’ll risk causing them any permanent harm.”

  “You sure of that?”

  “We’re sure of that,” supported Brennan.

  He wasn’t, thought Farr; he wasn’t sure of anything anymore. He said, “I hope you’re right. Dear God,
I hope you’re right.”

  “Don’t …” began Harrop carelessly, but managed to stop before he said “worry.” Awkwardly—the nervousness at once surfacing—he said instead, “I’m sure everything is going to work out all right.”

  Now it was Farr’s turn to look at each of them in turn. He said, “I wish I were.”

  So efficient had been the sealing off of 63rd Street in general, and Farr in particular, that the broker’s arrival for the grand jury’s hearings was the first opportunity for the media to get within photographic or shouting distance. He entered completely enclosed in a kraal of protective agents, blinded by the camera flashes and television lights, unable to decipher the babble of screamed and shouted questions. It was, anyway, a passing, unimportant impression: Farr’s mind was concentrated upon the examination room, and who he would see in it.

  After the flustered entry there was an abrupt, surprising calm. Still phalanxed by his FBI protectors, he was hurried through footstep-echoing corridors to a witnesses’ anteroom where, almost absurdly after the previous days’ unremitting close attendance, he was left momentarily quite alone. Then Harrop entered, through a door different from that which led out onto the corridor.

  “OK?” asked the district attorney.

  “Of course I’m not OK,” said Farr, the strain breaking through.

  “Sorry. Thoughtless. There’s nothing, incidentally. No news.”

  “I know.”

  The lawyer shifted uncomfortably just inside the entrance to the room. He jerked his head in the direction of what Farr presumed to be the hearing chamber. “Going well in there,” he said.

  “I’m glad for you,” said Farr.

  Harrop retreated, backing through the door. “You’ll be called immediately,” he said. “A few minutes.”

  Farr turned away as the door closed behind the man, irritated by Harrop’s blatantly forced behavior. Farr did not believe in God, so there was no normal difficulty if he had to lie under oath. It came down to practicalities, and the only practicality was keeping Harriet and Howard alive. If that meant a drug trafficker escaping justice, then, Farr decided, he couldn’t give a fuck. He had already decided, weeks and months ago, that he had done all and more than had been demanded of him. Only Harriet—saving Harriet—mattered. Farr became at once hot with embarrassment at the way his mind automatically organized priorities: Harriet and Howard, he corrected himself.

  Farr was frightened when the summons came from the court usher. Frightened because it was the moment when he would see for the first time—because Harrop had insisted that no official record photographs be shown, to prevent a challenge of collusion when it came to identification—if the man seized aboard the Mary Ann was the man he knew from the encounter in Lang’s office as Jorge Herrera Gomez.

  It was. Farr made the identification as he entered. Farr had steeled himself for the recognition, tensed against there being any reaction. The turmoil in his mind made it momentarily difficult to control his thoughts. The predominant one was that he had made the right decision in not disclosing the demand note. The FBI method would have been complicated and possibly confused in the way he was already familiar with—half starts and changes of direction—and all the time Gomez’s men would be aware of the hunt and doing something stupid. This course was simple: he understood, and Gomez knew he understood, and everything would be OK.

  He took the stand, swore unhesitatingly to tell the truth and sat where he was told. Harrop was directly in front of him, with Scarletti and Gomez to the right, flanked by their counsel. Also to the right was the stenographer. The grand jury—the group who had to decide whether there was sufficient evidence to form an indictment and bring the two men formally to trial—was assembled to his left in two tiers.

  For the benefit of the official record, Harrop unnecessarily explained the procedure and then embarked upon the evidence, beginning not with Howard’s arrest and the FBI pressure but by suggesting that the FBI approach had been without motive: a law-enforcement body had merely asked a public-spirited citizen for assistance. It would make his intended perjury easier, decided Farr, if he agreed that it was as the district attorney suggested it had been. Increasingly Farr took over the narrative, not needing Harrop’s prompting, recounting without difficulty from his precise financier’s memory the details of Lang’s approach, his meetings with two men named Julio Scarletti and Jorge Gomez and the European tour to establish their companies. He confirmed the names and the holdings of those companies and the money transacted through them, and was grateful that the attentive district attorney insisted that everything Farr had done had been in the furtherance of the FBI investigation and never for personal gain, and produced the details of the escrow holding into which Farr had deposited his cash commissions. Several times during the difficult explanation of money transfers and sideways movements of currency, Harrop took him back, to repeat and clarify, determined for his case that there should be no misunderstanding.

  Farr was conscious of walking a tightrope; he knew it would be wrong for him to give the protracted evidence without looking in the direction of Scarletti and Gomez. So he did so deliberately, and then frequently, as he got more fully into his account and felt more relaxed with his surroundings. It was statue looking at statues: Farr tried to remain impassive—difficult because of the hard churning hatred he felt for Gomez—and the two men sat in apparent calm, regarding him with matching blankness. Farr’s difficulty went beyond his detestation for the Colombian: he was numbed by his inability to make some sign to the man that he was going to comply and to receive an indication that Gomez understood as well, and that Harriet and Howard would be freed as soon as he met the ransom demand.

  Harrop led Farr through the documents, making the photostats available to the jury, and the broker verified them, only half concentrating, knowing that the moment could not be long coming.

  “Mr. Farr,” said the district attorney. “There was an occasion, very early on, when you had a meeting in the office of Norman Lang with two men?”

  “Yes,” said the broker.

  “Two men introduced to you as Julio Scarletti and Jorge Herrera Gomez?”

  “Yes.”

  “And for those two men, with the knowledge of the authorities, you created a situation whereby they could export large sums of money from the United States of America?”

  “That is so.”

  “Money you came to understand to be the proceeds on narcotic trafficking and dealing?”

  “I did believe that,” said Farr.

  “Will you look around this room, Mr. Farr, and tell the jury if you recognize Julio Scarletti and Jorge Herrera Gomez?”

  It was not the way Farr had expected the question to be put and he hesitated, looking back to the two men, flanked by their counsel. He said, “I recognize Scarletti.”

  Harrop was watching the jurry expectantly. He turned his head sharply, and said, “Scarletti!”

  “Sitting there,” said Farr, indicating.

  Now it was the district attorney’s turn to hesitate. Slowly he said, “What about Gomez?”

  Farr stared directly at the Colombian for several moments. Then he said in a strong voice, “No. This is not the man whom I met in the office of Norman Lang.”

  There were several reactions. Harrop twisted, frowning at Brennan and Seymour, and there was a head-jerk, too, by Scarletti, who looked first to Gomez, then up at Farr, then back to Gomez. Farr was conscious, as well, of an exchange of looks between the jury.

  “Mr. Farr,” said Harrop hurriedly. “I want you to be quite sure about this. You are positive that the man whom you met in the lawyer’s office is not the man here today, brought before the jury in the name of Jorge Herrera Gomez?”

  “Quite sure.” He’d done it, thought Farr. It had been remarkably easy and he felt no guilt whatsoever.

  Ramos was the first to have Harriet and then the others followed, and because they were drunk three of them took her at the same time. She was only half co
nscious when Ramos returned from making the telephone call, to learn what happened at the hearing.

  “Everything went as planned?” said the man who had groped Harriet in the car on the day of the kidnap.

  “Perfectly,” said Ramos.

  The man gestured toward the back room, to the curled-up figure of the woman. “What about her now?”

  “We’ll make an example,” said Ramos. “Show everyone we’re untouchable.” He wasn’t just doing it to show the Americans, thought Ramos; he was doing it to prove to Gomez he hadn’t failed after all.

  It took a long time for Harriet to die, because they all abused her again before the attack. Not as long, however, as it did Howard, because when the boy realized they intended to kill him anyway, he tried a frenzied escape and badly hurt one of his captors, partially blinding the man with a kick, so they determined he should suffer. Which he did, terribly.

  28

  The grand jury returned indictments on all counts against Julio Scarletti but failed to agree on Gomez, who was immediately freed. Farr saw it all on television in his blockaded house, overcome with relief at the sight of the slim, saturnine Colombian being hurried away from the court, face shielded and a ring of men keeping photographers and reporters from him. The broker kept switching newscasts, to remain constantly up to date, and on ABC he saw the departure of Gomez on a Bogotá-bound flight, within hours of his release. How long before he heard? wondered Farr. There would be a confrontation with Brennan and the district attorney, he supposed: Harriet and Howard would obviously know the connection between their captors and Gomez and from that Brennan would know he’d perjured himself. It was conceivable that they might consider some sort of action against him for perjury, although Farr doubted it because it would deflect from the ongoing prosecution against Scarletti. Farr did not give a damn, not about any confrontation or legal action. He had done the only sensible thing.